“I know,” he said eagerly. “I know just how you feel.”
“I could make so much money by my posing. It is not everyone who can pose. Mrs. Lyons says so. She says I am a good type. What does she mean by that? Does she mean that I am pretty? Blake, you are not listening.”
“I am too,” he protested. “She means you’re strange-looking: your eyes are strange.”
“Oh, no! You mean—” her voice was hurt “you mean I am ugly. I know!”
“No, no. You’re pretty.” He blurted it out, then blushed.
“Oh. Well, my mother thinks that artists are bad and always make love to models. It is not true. Mr. Lyons does not make love to me.”
“Of course he doesn’t. People don’t make love.” He hit the railroad tracks with a great bump, and slowed down. “I say, hasn’t it been ten minutes?” he asked, uneasily. He hoped that he could go back.
“Not yet surely. Are you afraid? It is nothing to you, is it? Must you go home?”
“No, no.” He speeded up again. It didn’t matter: he couldn’t ask Teddy about it anyway. There must be some mistake. Revelita? No. It was a mistake.
“I think,” she said, “that you tell all the girls that you meet that they are pretty. Do you?”